


Helpless

by HisAngelThursday



Series: Gangster Idiots in Love [3]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alfie Antagonizes Tommy's Entire Family, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathing/Washing, Begging, Bisexual Disaster Tommy Shelby, Bottom Tommy Shelby, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feminization, Fever, Gentle Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, Intimacy, Lace Panties, Light Bondage, M/M, Michael Gray Slander, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Pining, Naked Cuddling, Ollie Deserves A Raise, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Panties, Pining, Poor Ollie, Possessive Behavior, Post-Coital Cuddling, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rimming, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, Tender Sex, Tenderness, Top Alfie Solomons, Trust Issues, Verbal Humiliation, Why?? Are they???? So Soft??????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:14:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26050981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HisAngelThursday/pseuds/HisAngelThursday
Summary: Three months into their professional and sexual relationship, Tommy still convinces himself there are lines he won't cross. He won't tell Alfie about his childhood. He won't sleep in his bed. It's not that kind of relationship.When he wakes up in Alfie's arms, he does the only rational thing: panic, and try to distance himself as much as possible. But he can't run from his feelings forever, especially when an illness puts him at a sudden disadvantage.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Series: Gangster Idiots in Love [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756609
Comments: 138
Kudos: 319





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some angst in this one, but lots of fluff and comfort to offset it! In MY canon, these gangster-shaped babies are happy together.
> 
> This is a direct sequel to "An Unusual Arrangement" and "A Contest of Ownership," but it also works as a stand-alone fic. 
> 
> For those curious about the time period, I imagine it as the aesthetic of the 1920s with modern sensibilities. I used to describe it as a "modern AU," but that term doesn't quite fit what I'm picturing. And since it is an AU, I might as well get creative with it!
> 
> And don't worry, Alfie will be meeting the family very soon!

Tommy’s heart flutters like a schoolgirl as he approaches Alfie’s front door. It’s ridiculous, they’ve been doing this – whatever “this” is – for three months now, and he should be able to shake whatever stubborn spell this man’s put on him. But if he can’t shake it, then he supposes he should acclimate himself to it, build up a tolerance, as if to a poison. 

And Alfie Solomons is a wiley and dangerous man. Tommy has encountered many ruthless adversaries, but Alfie is more cunning than any. He is a chess-master whose skills rival Tommy’s own.

He’s about to knock on the front door when, with almost supernatural timing, it opens in front of him. Tommy internally yelps, but is able to retain his poker face. He’s practiced in the art of non-reaction, though Alfie always seems to find a way to eventually shatter that. 

“There you are, sweetie!” Alfie stands before him, wearing an apron with some words in yiddish on it that probably say ‘kiss the cook.’ “There’s that famous military precision, right on time, you are. Get in ‘ere.” 

“Solomons,” Tommy greets him politely, taking off his cap as he steps inside. He likes to pretend they’re still just business partners, and this is still part of their arrangement. Then this – whatever this is – would feel more familiar to him. 

Alfie takes off Tommy’s coat without asking first, plucks his hat from his hand, with no regard for the razor. “You do love your clothes, don’t you,” Alfie muses, eyeing Tommy up and down. “When we move in together, right, I suppose you shall need a whole wardrobe all to yourself.”

It irritates Tommy, Alfie’s enduring presumption that the only possible conclusion to their relationship is marriage. As if Tommy would marry someone like him.

Tommy had always planned on eventually marrying a woman. He loves men, has always loved men, but it was a love that felt clandestine and private. After a youth spent meeting Freddie behind the stables, he was heartbroken but not at all surprised when Freddie then opted to marry Ada. That was the way these things went. When he met Grace, it felt like a natural conclusion to his days of chasing the male embrace.

After Grace, he hadn’t really pictured himself with anyone. His life yawned cavernously before him, and he had a hard time believing it was something he could fill. But if, miraculously, he did marry after Grace, he’d pick someone sensible, someone whom his family – all of his family, not just Ada, who loved anything that gave Tommy some semblance of happiness – would accept. Fuck. Most of them still don’t know about Alfie. All of them, actually, besides Ada. 

Alfie whacks him upside the head, none-too-gentle, as if he were a lad. “Get out of your head, why don’t you,” he grumbles, not without affection. “Can always tell when you’re goin’ off somewhere, behind those blue eyes.” 

Tommy rubs the spot where Alfie hit him and shoots him a glare, outraged. How dare he? If Alfie were any other man, Tommy would order him beaten and robbed, made an example of. 

Alfie clicks his tongue, his expression half condescending, half consoling. “Sweetie. I always forget you’re sensitive.” He wraps an arm around Tommy’s waist, under his suit jacket, and presses a kiss to the spot he just struck. “Let’s get to the kitchen, yeah? I’ve got some stew on the stove for you, sweet thing.”

Tommy feels his neck grow hot at being spoken to this way, as Alfie always manages to somehow do. He needs to tell him to stop, that it’s ridiculous and inappropriate. Doesn’t he know how dangerous Tommy is? Where he’s from? The years he painstakingly built his reputation of heartlessness and ferocity?

Tommy tells himself it’s too ridiculous to bother acknowledging.

Alfie’s kitchen always smells richly of food. The man is an amazing cook, and one of the few who can compel Tommy to eat even half of what’s on his plate. He really is devilishly clever, this man, the way he can disarm Tommy with hospitality and gentle touches and warmth. It contrasts the many stories of brutality Tommy’s heard about him. A dangerous opponent indeed.

He takes off Tommy’s suit jacket – once again, rudely, without asking, and drapes it over the back of a chair. “Have a seat, treacle.” 

Tommy decides to humor him, as he always eventually does. For business, he reminds himself. This is for business. 

He wouldn’t marry someone like Alfie. He thinks about how small and delicate he’d look on Alfie’s arm. Tommy’s always tried to look bigger, practiced his dominant strut, perfected walking in a way that made people clear a path for him. Alfie’s presence dwarfs his own.

Alfie rolls up his sleeves as he sets to work, showing the amber hair on his forearms. Tommy swallows as he watches his hands, and makes himself look at the table instead. Alfie can always tell when Tommy is watching him.

“You’ll have to tell me, treacle, how is your sister? What’s her name – Ladybird, right?”

“Ada. For the last time.” 

“Right. Makes me think of a ladybug for some reason.”

“Mm. So you’ve said.” Tommy fiddles with a spoon. “Fine. She’s fine.” 

“Taciturn about her state of being as you are about your own, eh?” Alfie spoons the stew into two ceramic bowls that look handmade. “And what about the rest of your family? And when will I get the chance to meet them?”

Fuck. Can Alfie read minds? The knowing, almost mocking lilt to his voice certainly implies that he knows exactly what Tommy was thinking. But then, Alfie always sounds like that. 

“I don’t know if you’d get along. With my brothers, I mean.” Tommy decides to be frank. “Or my aunt.” 

“Adabird seems to like me.” 

“You know it’s just Ada, and she’s an exception.”

“Because she’s a good judge of character,” Alfie concludes for him. He sets a bowl down, and the steam wafts up around Tommy’s face, enticing. How does Alfie do it? Delicious-smelling food has never appetized Tommy. It usually makes his stomach turn, reminds him of how little he wants it. 

“Anyway –” Alfie takes a seat next to him, tossing his discarded apron carelessly over another chair – “I’ll have to meet them eventually, yeah?”

“Because we’re getting married.” 

“Well, hold your horses, sweetie, not yet. It’s only been three months, yeah? But eventually, of course.” 

“Of course,” Tommy mocks, resentful of this man for laying claim over him so unceremoniously.

Alfie says a prayer in Yiddish, and they eat. Alfie has a masterful ability to talk and eat at the same time. “Glad you’re getting a bit of nutrients, my darling, you need it,” he says. “Such a tiny thing.” 

“So you’ve said.” Tommy tries to hide how much the observation irks him. Presumably, he fails, because Alfie never fucking stops bringing it up. 

It’s a wonder he does business with Alfie, but Alfie’s one of the best business partner’s he’s ever had. Together, they’ve already occupied more territory than even Tommy could have dreamed of, chased Sabini and his men into what’s left of his territory. It’s too lucrative to give up.

Tommy tells himself that’s why he stays. 

“Yet you keep so much inside.” Alfie’s tone is unexpectedly serious, even as he’s chewing, his eyes narrowed. “When you get all quiet, I can see it all churning inside you, right, like a storm. Everything that’s happened. You keep the past inside you.”

Tommy glances at him, annoyed and a little unnerved that the bastard’s picked such an inopportune time to finally be serious.

“If only you were always as easy as when we’re in bed together,” Alfie muses, and Tommy nearly chokes. 

He barely manages to retain his composure, dapping delicately at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. 

“I want to get you so you’re always that open with me, sweetie. About everything.” Incongruous with what he’s saying, Alfie loudly slurps his soup, as if Tommy’s not even there. It's an incredibly annoying sound. “And I plan on it. But we’ll take it one step at a time.”

“We should talk business.” Tommy wants desperately to change the subject, which is ridiculous and incongruous. They rarely talk business outside of the office. But he doesn’t like the turn this is taking. 

Over the past three months, they’ve developed a relatively comfortable routine: they do business in the office (and sometimes more, but Tommy tries to keep business and pleasure as separate as possible) and Alfie takes Tommy out to dinner or cooks for him, and then they go upstairs. And yes, Tommy resents Alfie’s ability to make him into a feral, sex-driven animal in the bedroom, but that’s just sex, he reminds himself. 

He doesn’t want Alfie to start prying into his emotions, into what’s come before. He doesn’t want Alfie’s endless chatter to delve deeper than talk about dogs and ladybugs and ridiculous stories. 

What would Alfie do if he knew Tommy’s vulnerabilities? His weak spots? Would he taunt him with them? Prod at them, just to get a reaction? 

“There you go, off again.” Alfie’s knuckle caresses Tommy’s cheek, like he’s wiping away an invisible tear. Tommy can’t help but start at the unexpected tenderness. “Oh, sweetie. I didn’t mean to upset you. We’ll take everything at your pace, yeah? I always forget how emotional you are, my little darling.” 

Tommy scowls, because he’s not fucking  _ sensitive,  _ not fucking _ emotional _ . He’s no one’s  _ little darling _ . He wishes this man would stop treating him like one of his jewels, like something delicate and precious and rare. 

“Perhaps we should shift the conversation to something more your speed, yeah?” Alfie’s smile turns devious, eyes glittering. “For the time being. Let me ask you, dear, are you wearing them?”

Fuck. Tommy had almost forgotten. 

He nods, trying to keep himself from flushing. It’s a futile task, and he feels his face grow hot.

Alfie kisses his hot cheek, a gesture too chaste for the subject matter. “No need to be shy, my sweet, bashful thing. That’s why I got them for you, innit?”

Tommy is suddenly very aware of the silken women’s underwear hugging his cock, beneath his suit. It’s bright blue, “To match your eyes,” Alfie told him the last time he wore them.

This is for business, he reminds himself. Purely business. 

“Well, go on then. Finish your supper, or as much of it as a little bird like you can finish.” Alfie pats his thigh, condescending. “We’ve more important matters, isn’t that right?”

Tommy nods, spooning at his stew, too rattled to even take offense. He can’t really imagine eating much more than this. 

“I’m going to take good care of you tonight,” Alfie informs him, not helping matters in the slightest. “Maybe good enough care that you’ll even stay afterwards, hmm? Sleep in my bed, instead of on my couch.”

Tommy shakes his head. “It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“ _ Wouldn’t be appropriate? _ Need I remind you, right, that I’ve had my tongue up your arse. I think we’ve already crossed some professional fucking boundaries.”

Tommy has the incredible urge to punch him. It’s reflexive at this point. When words fail, fall back on violence. 

“Wait and see, darling.” Alfie sits back, eyes satisfied crescents. “I’ll keep you in my bed yet.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to cut straight to the part where Tommy wakes up in Alfie's bed, but I realized I couldn't just TALK about the mind-blowing sex that made him pass out and not SHOW it. The next chapters focus more on emotional dynamics, angst, and eventual comfort, but I also love the way sex can show natural dynamics and impulses in people, with less of the usual inhibitions. This is purely educational, kids. 
> 
> Thank you all to everyone who's commented already. If you leave a comment (especially on multiple chapters!) you're on my Favorite People list forever.
> 
> "Shiefale" is a Yiddish term of endearment, apparently meaning lamb. I find that delightful.

“Make it quick, Alfie,” Tommy mutters, even as he heatedly returns Alfie’s kisses. “I don’t feel well.”

“Seem to be feeling just fine to me, love. And this will make you feel better.” 

“Maybe you should be less sure of yourself, Alfie, and do your fucking job.”

It’s always a toss-up, yeah, _ which  _ Tommy he’ll get in bed. Tommy A gives himself over to his impulses fairly quickly, squirming on Alfie’s cock, spouting dirty-talk that he’ll surely regret in the morning. Tommy B is defiant and feisty, though he’d certainly object to being referred to as “feisty.” He has to be fucked into submission, the icy glare of his eyes melting into warm blue lust. It’s a Jekyll and Hyde situation, if Jekyll and Hyde were both a promiscuous Roma gangster.

Alfie can’t decide which Tommy he likes more.

Tonight, he’s Tommy B, and Alfie’s perfectly fucking fine with that. 

“Get undressed,” Alfie growls, feeling Tommy up thoroughly. He wants this damn suit  _ off _ , but he reminds himself to remain steady. To deal with Tommy B, he has to keep control of his baser fucking impulses. 

“Make me,” Tommy snarls back, eyes pretty blue daggers.

“Well, if you fucking insist, sweetie.” 

Tommy is shoved onto the bed, his hands batted away as Alfie tears at his shirt, sending his buttons popping. “That’s expensive,” Tommy spits, even though Alfie knows his suits are on the house.

“Shut your fucking mouth and take what you’re given,” Alfie snarls, not in the mood for sweetness. “Little fucking tart.”

“Fuck you,” Tommy retorts, shoving at his hands without any real effort to move them. 

Alfie responds by peeling off the layers of his shirt and vest in a single go and tying Tommy’s wrists firmly together with his discarded tie, binding them at his chest as if in prayer. This doesn’t completely stop Tommy’s resistance, if you could even fucking call it that, but it reminds him who’s in charge.

He’s still in his undershirt, and because that’s not as nice as Tommy’s other clothes, he tears through it with his hands just to make a point. “You fucking bastard,” Tommy pants, his chest bobbling like a bird and blotchy pink with arousal. 

Alfie just smiles down at him, swollen with glee at the whole situation. “Never denied that, my sweet little whore.”

Alfie can’t resist decorating that heaving chest with hickies, before sucking on his nipple with just as much ferocity until Tommy starts to writhe against him. Alfie has not removed his trousers yet, wanting to unwrap that little present last, but he can feel Tommy’s hard little cock pressing against him in indignant protest. 

Alfie doesn’t relent, and Tommy’s resolve evidently falters. That’s when the pleading begins. 

“Fuck, stop it.” Despite his words, throaty and desperate, Tommy’s hands are knotted firmly in Alfie’s shirt and pulling him down fervently. “You can’t just – it hurts, it fucking hurts, stop it, you  _ bastard _ .” 

Alfie keeps it up for another few moments, enjoying Tommy’s babbling. He silently thanks the benevolent forces of the universe for making him so deliciously sensitive, so responsive. 

Alfie pulls off with a wet pop, and pulls back to admire his handiwork. Tommy’s abused nipple is spit-slick and angry-looking. “Love your slutty little tits, darling,” he murmurs adoringly, before giving Tommy’s other nipple the exact same treatment. 

By the end, Tommy’s practically humping him, making pained, desperate noises. “Get these fucking things off me.” He pushes desperately at his belt, trying to fumble with the buckle with his firmly bound hands. 

Alfie wrenches his hands over his head with one hand, and harshly slaps him with the other. Tommy’s gaze is defiant, but those icy eyes well up with tears, and his face turns pink to match the mark Alfie’s ring left. His cock, however, pulses forlornly where it’s pinned between Alfie’s legs. 

“Now, that’s not any way to ask, is it?” Alfie makes his voice purposefully condescending, just to watch Tommy squirm furiously beneath him. “If you want your little trousers off, you must say, ‘Please, Mister Solomons, I’d like to show you my pretty panties.’”

Tommy’s eyes sharpen at that, as if his infamous glare will save him. It’s hard to look particularly terrifying when you’re so thoroughly fucking ravaged, hickies bruising his abused, spit-glossy chest. 

“Well?” Alfie pinches those abused nipples harshly, making him stiffen with pain. 

“Fuck you,” Tommy informs him. 

“Not till you say the magic words, darling. And if you don’t say it, I’ll go back to ravaging your lovely little bosoms till you do.” 

“Fucking do it, then.” 

And Alfie does. 

Tommy is a tough little fucker, and though he writhes and makes stifled, increasingly pained little sounds, he holds out till Alfie’s mouth aches from the sustained suction. 

“Fuck, fuck, I’ll do it, just stop, fucking stop,” he whines, after what must have been a half fucking hour. 

Alfie pulls back and regards him expectantly. He is a diligent and determined man, and despite the proper fucking ache of his jaw, he’s more than ready to go right back to work if Tommy doesn’t follow through on his promise.

Tommy must see this, because he starts, “Please –” and pauses to wet his lip – “Please, Mister Solomons.” He inhales, and seems to be weighing his options, but the poor boy looks properly wrecked and there really isn’t much else he can do. So he stoically maintains eye-contact, and concludes, “Please, Mister Solomons, may I show you my panties?” 

“Why, Tommy, I thought you’d never ask.”

Alfie yanks Tommy’s belt and trousers off like they’re offensive to his religion, hurling them across the floor. Tommy is left bound, with a tie that – Alfie realizes this now – perfectly matches the blue of his lovely silken underwear. Alfie wonders if that was purposeful, and, because this is Tommy, knows that the answer is probably ‘yes.’

As for Tommy himself, he looks completely fucking affronted to be in this situation, pink-faced and outraged, his bound hands drawn protectively over his ravaged breast. One would think that he hadn’t purposefully worn these specific underwear, and come to Alfie’s house specifically for this purpose. 

Well. His cock gives him away, really, it’s livid pink head glossy and protruding from his lovely underwear like an embedded jewel. Alfie smooths the fabric around it with his thumbs, pulls it tight, pinning it down until he can see it pulsing. 

“Please.” Tommy’s voice sounds wrecked, uncharacteristically high. It’s music to Alfie’s ears.

“Please what, little one?”

“Please.” Tommy’s damp eyelashes flutter over his eyes, glistening like wet sapphires. “Touch me.”

“Oh,  _ sheifale. _ And you asked so nicely. Of course I’ll touch you.” Alfie leans towards Tommy’s pelvis, and his restrained cock twitches in anticipation of contact. However, Alfie bypasses it completely, delighting in Tommy’s stifled whimper. “I’ll touch you –” he kisses at the silken fabric below his balls, right over Tommy’s areshole – “right  _ here. _ ”

He pulls the fabric aside to eat Tommy out thoroughly, slapping his bound hands away whenever they reach for his neglected cock, his legs thrown over Alfie’s shoulders. He begins cursing, first in English, then he says some very unpleasant things in Romany, then in some pigeon of the two that he clearly just invented on the fly. Then he actually starts crying, which tells Alfie the poor thing has probably had enough. 

But he keeps eating him out for another five minutes or so anyway, just to be mean.

When he finally fucks him, he keeps the panties on and Tommy’s legs over his shoulders, bending him in half. He’s freakishly flexible. Alfie wasn’t nearly as flexible when he was Tommy’s age, which surprisingly enough is thirty-two. The boy could be mistaken for a teenager, and Alfie’s still convinced he’s part pixie. 

“My sweet little pixie,” Alfie growls, just to watch that beautiful face contort with pleasure and annoyance at the same time. It’s adorable, really. 

“Fuck. You,” Tommy grits out, though it’s hard to take him seriously when he’s folded beneath Alfie and writhing around his cock. 

“Lovely of you to offer, Tommy, but I’m a bit busy fucking you.” 

The fact that Tommy can still form coherent words, Alfie decides, means that he’s not doing his job well enough. 

So Alfie adjusts his angle until he hits that particular, vulnerable little spot that makes Tommy yelp with pleasure, and once he’s located it, he thrusts against it relentlessly. 

Tommy’s eyes go wide as his prostate is stimulated, and Alfie can feel him start to tighten around him. “Alfie,” he gasps, “Alfie, stop, I’m going to –” 

“Just let go, sweetie, it’s fine,” Alfie growls, pressing kisses to that sweet, surprised face, not relenting in the slightest. “Just let go, I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Tommy gasps out something that sounds like “fuck” with the vowels removed, his mouth and eyes go wide and his body goes so tight that it almost hurts around Alfie’s cock. And he spills, the heat of his release painting both of them as he goes slack. 

Alfie speeds up, spilling violently inside of him, and only as he’s coming down from his orgasmic haze does he realize that Tommy’s passed out from his orgasm. He’s gone slack around him, legs spread wantonly, in blue silk panties, chest painted with his own spend. His eyelashes kiss his flushed, freckled cheeks, and Alfie brushes his sweaty hair from his forehead. He thinks, in that moment, that he must be an angel.

“Told you I’d get you to sleep in my bed, love.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy wakes in a panic to find himself in bed with the enemy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ada and Polly make an appearance in this one! I love writing family dynamics, especially complicated ones. 
> 
> A lot more humor than I originally anticipated in this chapter, but plenty of building angst as well. To those leaving comments, I LOVE Y'ALL, and I can't wait to hear your feedback on this one. <3

Tommy dreams of his mother that night. Of her embrace, when they lived on  _ The January _ and he and Arthur were piled into bed with her, and they had to huddle together on cold nights. 

In his dream, the room is dark and her arms are warm and her embrace is sure, and he feels safe even though he also feels odd and feverish. He can feel the rocking of the barge on the canal, and it comforts him.

“Happy or sad, Thomas?” comes a familiar voice in his ear.

Tommy freezes. Is it his mother? Or is it Grace? Greta, maybe? He no longer feels safe where he is, and the embrace feels more proprietary than comforting. He wants to turn to look at her, whoever she is, but he’s afraid of what he’ll see. 

He fears it will be his mother’s bone white face, hair clumped together with canal water. The way she looked as Uncle Charlie pulled her out. 

Greta, when she finally succumbed to her illness, her eyes staring sightlessly, the soul behind them vacated.

Grace, her heart broken when he explained why they couldn’t be together, their hopes for the future shattered. 

He can feel hot breath on the back of his neck. “I warn you,” the voice whispers gleefully, “I’ll break your heart.” 

Tommy wakes with a start. He still feels feverish, and his throat is sore. That part wasn’t a dream. More disconcertingly, arms are still embracing him, making him want to jolt from the bed. But it’s never good to make rash decisions at times like this. 

He assesses his surroundings, and recognizes – from the bizarre and inexplicable portrait of a German Shepherd dressed as a baroque aristocrat, and from the low Yiddish radio program in the background – that he is in Alfie’s bedroom. And that the person cuddling him is, presumably, Alfie. The faint scratch of a beard on his neck confirms it.

The thought should comfort him, but a new wave of panic cascades over him. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He and Alfie aren’t lovers, they’re business partners. Sex is just an added benefit of their relationship. Cuddling is not. 

He gently and carefully peels Alfie’s arm off of him, and curls from the bed. His legs and hands are shaking faintly, jittering all over, and he can’t tell if it’s from the panic or the fever. He feels clean, and he’s wearing an undershirt so large that it makes him feel like a child, covering him completely like a short dress. Alfie must have washed and dressed him. The thought makes him burn with humiliation, even more than whatever fever gripped him during the night.

Alfie could have hurt or maimed him when he was vulnerable like that. He could have used it against him somehow. How could Tommy be stupid enough to let himself be that vulnerable?

He looks around for his clothes, but they’re nowhere to be found – except his shoes, discarded near the door. Alfie must have done something with them. Maybe he wants to embarrass Tommy even more than he has already, make him beg and plead to get his clothes back. Well, that won’t happen. Tommy will prove to this man that he’s underestimated him. 

He collects his shoes and creeps quietly from the room, making use of the catlike grace he cultivated as a child, only stopping to put them on once he’s at the foot of the stairs. His hat and coat are still hanging by the doorway, and he buttons all the way to disguise his mostly-nude state underneath. He feels ridiculous, but there’s little he can do. It’s the risk he takes when he steps into the enemy’s domain and sleeps in their bed.

He steps out into night, and stops to make sure his keys are in his pocket and the door is locked behind him. The air is cold on his face – or maybe it’s just the fever, which he can’t quite seem to shake. Fuck, he can’t afford to be sick. 

He tugs his cap over the tips of his ears, already miserable. It will be a long drive back to Birmingham.

* * *

Tommy can’t stop imagining Alfie handling his naked body while he was unconscious. Like a child. Weak and helpless, totally vulnerable. God, Alfie must find him pathetic. He feels pathetic. Never in his whole life had he allowed himself to be so weak, to subjugate himself so willingly. 

His fever isn’t improving his mood, and his sore throat has gotten significantly worse by the time he’s gotten back to his house. The sky is already blue-tinted with early morning. He’ll have to get dressed and go straight to work.

Matters are complicated further when he finds Ada and Polly sitting at his kitchen table, each with a steaming cup of coffee and their night dresses on. When they see him, their expressions turn from pleasant acknowledgement to total confusion when they each take note of the conspicuous lack of trousers beneath his coat.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Tommy demands, not in the mood to explain himself. 

“I live here,” Ada reminds him. 

“I know you live here. What are  _ you  _ doing here?” he addresses Polly, pointing for clarification. 

“We didn’t think you’d be back. Thought I’d give Ada some company.” Polly is visibly stifling laughter at this point, staring pointedly at Tommy’s bare calves. “Tommy, if I may ask –” 

“– What happened to your clothes?” Ada concludes for her, and the two devolve into explosive giggles, leaning on one another as if for support. 

“No, you may not ask.” Tommy does not find this situation humorous. This is a huge setback, and on top of it all, he seems to be falling ill. He’ll have to put in an extra effort all through the day just to make himself even remotely productive. 

He can’t take a day off to get well, not when his whole family is depending on him, but he can’t underperform either. 

“I see you and Mister Solomons are getting along well,” Ada says slyly, not picking up on Tommy’s unhappiness. To be fair, he’s always been good at concealing discomfort. Now, he’s not sure he could stop if he wanted to.

“Which reminds me,” chimes in Polly, “When will I get to meet this Mister Solomons? I can’t get a read on him.” 

Fuck. Tommy will have to see Alfie again tomorrow, early, for a meeting in his office. At this point, he doesn’t think he should ever speak to or contact Solomons ever again. It clearly brings out the worst in him. Even as a lad, he wasn’t this sloppy. 

“Tommy? Hello?” Ada jogs him back to reality. His head feels like it’s full of molasses. Fuck, this isn’t good. 

“Guess he didn’t get a lot of sleep last night,” Polly stage-whispers, triggering another stifled burst of laughter. 

The women are still tittering as he exits the room.

* * *

Tommy showers in water that sears his skin red, and then turns it cold enough to burn. He shaves his jawline razor smooth, forcing his hand to remain steady, even though he feels jittery from the inside out. He dresses in his very sharpest three-piece suit. 

He regards himself in the mirror. He feels dreadful by now: his temples are throbbing dully, his throat feels like it’s swelling shut, his muscles are sore, and his fever has not diminished. But no one would know he was sick to look at him, and that’s the important thing. No vulnerability.

He doesn’t want to think about what Ada and Polly just saw of him: a vulnerable, wanton mess, coming back from a careless fling with a criminally insane Jewish gangster. Well. Ada, he could deal with – she knows just about everything about him – but Polly respects strength. This could undermine his ability to work with her.

Yes, she’s come to terms with his feelings for men. She wouldn’t be averse if he brought a good man home. But she didn’t always feel that way. He remembers her disdain when she was younger and less versed in the ways of the world, when she – already a keen observer of details – discerned that he was sleeping with Freddie. 

“How could you do this to your mother, Thomas,” she hissed at him. “Don’t you think she’s burdened enough? It would break her poor heart if she knew.” 

He has no desire to bring this up to Polly, but he suspects that some part of her still feels this way. Old prejudices are hard to shed, like the idea that an attraction to men would render him weak, that loving a man is shameful. And if Polly loses respect for him because of this, it could impact his ability to lead the family. 

And Arthur. John. Will she tell them about this? Tommy can’t appear weak in front of them. Not when he has an army to lead. 

Tommy holds his head soldier-high, and strides out to do the work that the day requires of him. He will prove to his family that he’s worthy of their respect, and he’ll prove to the world that he’s worthy of being a leader.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alfie is forced to acknowledge to himself that he has Feelings, and that with Feelings comes the risk of loss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved showing Alfie's vulnerability in this one, despite his (justifiable) certainty that he and Tommy are meant to be. He, at his own pace and in his own way, is also coming to terms with the fact that this is more than a physical or business relationship, as his feelings for Tommy become increasingly less abstract.
> 
> You're all giving me SO MUCH encouragement with your lovely comments, and though updates may slow down a bit during the workweek, I made a lot of headway over the weekend and will be posting chapters incrementally!

It’s not that Alfie’s surprised, right, that Tommy left in the night like some kind of fucking banshee. He knows Tommy’s aversion to the intimacy of sharing a bed, and wouldn’t put it past the silly lad to have some kind of a panic over it. 

He is mildly surprised, however, that the fucking hazard of a human being  _ left without any trousers on _ . Even underclothes, discounting Alfie’s generously bestowed nightshirt. 

When Alfie first found Tommy gone, after he overcame the disappointment of not waking up with a bleary-eyed little Roma prince in his arms, his first thought was that Tommy must have borrowed some of Alfie’s clothes. Granted, he’d be swimming in them, right, but they’d make him decent for the ride home. But all of Alfie’s three-or-four pairs of trousers seemed present and accounted for.

If he’d been in any way functional, the blue-eyed little fuck could have just woken Alfie up and said, “Excuse me, Alfie, but where are my clothes?” to which Alfie would say, in a sleepy-yet-loving tone of voice, “Why, I certainly wish you’d stay, Tommy, but if you are so terribly compelled to leave, then you may collect your clothing from my lovely, reclusive housekeeper, whom I instructed to stay out of our way last night, but who sewed your buttons on last night and washed and dried everything, as per my request.” And Tommy would say, “Why, thank you, Alfie, how very considerate, Alfie, I look forward to next time, Alfie.” And Alfie would say, “You are very welcome, my darling Tommy, I immensely look forward to next time as well.” And perhaps he’d get a nice kiss goodbye. 

But no, the dramatic bastard had to go streaking into the night like some kind of a fucking lunatic. At least he took his coat, so he wouldn’t wind up in the morning paper for public nudity. 

Now, Alfie can acknowledge – rationally, right – that this is not unexpected. It’s very much in line with Tommy Shelby’s particular brand of finely pasteurized bullshit. Alfie can understand. But that doesn’t mean Alfie’s not fucking angry about it. Rational or not – and he can acknowledge that rationality has not consistently been his strong suit – he is somewhat fucking livid. 

For one thing, last night had just gone so  _ well, _ so  _ beautifully, _ and why did Tommy have to ruin it with his fucking antics, hmm? Especially since he was so affectionate in his sleep. 

Alfie cherishes the memory of laying him on the bed, carefully removing his silk underwear to be cleaned with his other clothes. He sponged him down gently, memorizing the scars and the freckles, watched the goosebumps rise along his pale skin. And Tommy sighed, his pretty face unburdened and innocent for once, even leaning into Alfie’s touch when he caressed his hair. 

When Alfie cuddled him after, Tommy made a contented little sound, uninhibited by his conscious mind, and Alfie felt a warm curl of love unfurl in his chest.

Love. Logically, right, Alfie had known since he’d met Tommy that he was going to love this man, that the love he was destined to bestow upon him had been waiting dormant inside of him until that particular moment when he saw Tommy’s eyes for the first time.

That being said, identifying that particular emotion, putting a word to it –  _ Love _ – isn’t terribly fucking pleasant for Alfie. 

The thing about this is, Alfie’s always peripherally aware of the notion that he can prospectively fuck this up. He knows that he and Tommy are meant to be married – that’s just a fucking fact – but do soulmates always remain together? Do those who should be married always get married? No, and they frequently do not. That’s a bit concerning. 

And another thing about it is, Alfie hasn’t had a great deal of love in his life before. His dear mother, weathered by life’s trials as old leather, had no softness left to give. He cares for the nieces and nephews of his bastard half-siblings, and love links them together, but it’s love of a broken kind, built of broken things, beautiful in the way of a shattered mirror. They were brought together by their relation to a bastard who spent his life begetting bastards, who was so ignorant of his own people’s traditions or just so fucking egotistical that he named Alfie after himself.

When he held Tommy in his arms last night, Alfie found that he cared for him not out of blood loyalty, not out of potential benefits, not even because he is a member of a persecuted race quite like Alfie’s own. Alfie loves Tommy – and it’s a budding love, still being nurtured, but it’s there – simply for the sake of loving Tommy. This feeling is the first pure thing Alfie has ever had in his life. And if Alfie is to be honest, he’s fucking terrified of losing him.

Fuck. Alfie grumbles his woes in an incomprehensible mix of Russian and Yiddish as he lumbers over to the breakfast table, where his Reclusive Housekeeper has deposited a cup of coffee and his morning paper. He doubts he’ll be able to properly enjoy it. The little Gypsy bastard completely shattered the tranquility of Alfie’s morning routine.

If Alfie’s being honest, what he really wants to do is find him right now and make him fucking sorry. Put him over his knee or bend him over a table, regardless of whoever else is present, and brand his ownership right into his pert little backside with the palm of his hand. He’d ensure the little fucker wouldn’t sit down for a week without remembering exactly whom he belonged to. 

But, Alfie can acknowledge that this would be a Bad and Immoral and Destructive course of action, even by his particular moral code. He likes to think that their particular brand of sexual relationship can be of benefit to Tommy, that it gives the ruthless little fucker an opportunity to trust and let down his guard and give himself over, to let himself be soft and vulnerable for a while. Whatever carefully-earned trust he’s cultivated so far would surely be shattered if he gave Tommy a good hiding in front of his snooty business associates. 

Furthermore, Alfie can acknowledge, Tommy isn’t an inanimate object. Which means that Alfie has to keep his own covetous tendencies under control, temporarily restrain his possessive streak, or risk scaring him off forever. Tommy isn’t a doll, and it would be pretty fucking boring if he were. He’s a person, and Alfie wants to love him and be loved by him as a person. 

That takes sacrifices. Patience. Control. And evidently, the tranquility of his fucking mornings. 

Alfie bitterly sips his coffee, which, as usual, is just a touch too fucking sweet. He unfurls his paper like it did something to personally offend him, and doesn’t expect to get through very much of it.

He doesn’t expect to hear from Tommy today, and Alfie makes a bargain with himself to give him some space. For twenty-four hours, at least. Tomorrow, he’ll be seeing Tommy in his office, at which point he can more properly gauge what the boy needs. Alfie fully expects to conclude their business talk by bending Tommy over his desk and fucking some sense into him. Maybe spank him a bit. He doubts Tommy will have any objections, especially once his baser impulses take over.

He tries to make himself process the words on the paper, and tries not to think about the many, many ways he could potentially fuck this up. 

Alfie has spent his life and his living observing fucked up people, fucking up their lives with their fucked up ways. And usually, they cause whatever misfortune they fear most, out of their fear that it will occur. Strange how it works, that is.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy makes Decisions, not all of which are particularly good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a sadistically good time writing all the angst and pining that's mounting in this chapter. 
> 
> To everyone who leaves me comments, I love them more than the air I breath, so THANK YOU!

Tommy spends the whole day fucking miserable. His throat feels scrubbed raw and his head is throbbing and his muscles ache and his fever makes him yearn to curl up somewhere soft and quiet. But absolutely no one would know that to interact with him, and that’s all that matters. 

He conducts his business sharply, with ruthless precision, simply because there is no other choice but to do so. Since the military, Tommy’s been surprised by what agonies a human being can ignore, simply because there is no choice but to keep going. 

He doesn’t care much for his own life, but he can’t leave his family destitute. And so he will keep going, for them, climb as high and as fast as he can until he cannot climb anymore. 

He bounces between meetings like a bullet in a metal box. He says, “Then tell them we have the shipping license and their suspicion is not appreciated.” He says, “We expect the money by 11 AM on Wednesday.” He says, “The Shelby Company Limited supports equal rights for women.” He says, “Sit down, Finn,” and, “Please stop talking, John,” and, “That’s not a good idea, Arthur,” and, “Thank you for the input, Polly,” and, “Agreed, Ada.” 

He monitors the transportation of car parts. He makes thinly-veiled threats to discourage stealing. He visits the stables to check on the health of his latest racehorse. He informs Charlie that no, Curly is right, this kind of feed is inferior and hazardous to the animal’s health. He visits the office, and calmly informs Michael that bringing in girls during working hours is not professional conduct. He sifts through papers. He researches clients. He meets those clients and is able to discern when they are lying to him based upon his thorough research, and stores that information away for when it will prove useful. He dines with those clients and only pretends to drink so he can stay sober while they get progressively drunk and loose-tongued and inclined to spill their secrets. He returns to his office and spends hours writing down and categorizing this information. On his way out, he hears giggling from Michael’s office, and shouts through the door to keep that shit off of licensed premises. Fuck, he never should have fucking hired that kid. 

Yelling makes him freshly aware of the burn in his throat, further inflamed by a day spent talking and negotiating. In the rear view mirror on his way home, his cheeks have an uncharacteristic flush, and his eyes look dewy. Fuck, he’s tired. And his head aches dully. And even sitting up makes his muscles hurt. Now that the whirring of his brain has slowed slightly, the physical sensations come into focus. They distract him from his usual thoughts on his way home, make it harder to think and plan.

He hears Ada and Polly giggling in the kitchen once he’s home. Why the hell is Polly back? Is she back for the night? Fuck, her close relationship with Ada can be an inconvenience. He can’t let her see him in this weakened state, not after this morning. Her respect is too integral to maintaining his business. Granted, he is thirsty, and some tea would probably soothe his throat, but he can just sip water from the sink upstairs. And he’s not in the mood to eat, anyway.

Upstairs, he finds Alfie’s sleeping shirt still on his bed, where he discarded it this morning. The sight of it makes him emotional for some reason, but that’s probably just because he’s tired and jittery. He sits on the bed and holds it in his hands, staring at it. He thinks about Alfie wearing it, looking big and soft and bearlike. In his half-moon glasses, reading, sipping tea. Alfie’s chest, radiating warmth like the stove they used to huddle around as children.

He wants to be held right now. The way Alfie held him last night. He wants to be held and comforted, and he hates himself for it, for being this weak, for still needing this. His selfish craving for love has never done anything but yield stupid decisions and undermine the safety of the family and the business. 

Grace. Barney. Greta. Freddie. His mother. None of that ended well, so why can’t he fucking  _ learn _ ? 

He’s tired and emotional, and all he wants to do is curl up. He doesn’t have energy to get a drink from the faucet, or even take off his suit. He curls in on himself, just like that, and breathes in the smell of Alfie’s shirt. Warm and heady, with the spicy smell of the herbs from his kitchen.

Fuck. Right now, he wishes he could marry Alfie, which goes to show how far gone he is. But that’s not an option for someone like him, is it? A happy life isn’t an option. Not for someone born to his station, for someone who made his decisions. All Tommy wants is for his family to have that chance, and for that, he forfeited his own. It will be worth it if Ada’s kid, and John’s, and Arthur’s if he has them, and Finn will be able to grow up divorced from the world of filth they came from. 

Tommy’s profession will probably kill him before he can achieve full legitimacy, but what he finds more frightening is the prospect that it might  _ not _ . Because if it doesn’t, he’ll have to keep living. And he can’t just fucking pick whoever he wants to marry, he can’t come home with a maniacal bear of a man and still expect his family to respect him. He’ll have to pick some girl, someone suitable, who looks good on his arm. The thought of it makes him feel empty. 

He wonders how Alfie would react, so sure Tommy will marry him. Would he be sad? Would he move on? Find some silly young thing with a pretty face and an eager-to-please attitude, who will give him less trouble than Tommy? The thought makes Tommy sad, and unreasonably angry. But he also doesn’t want Alfie to be alone. He has to talk to Alfie tomorrow, it’s unfair to keep leading him on this way. They both need to prepare themselves for what’s to come. 

But for now, Tommy buries his face in Alfie’s shirt and breathes him in, and imagines it’s him he’s embracing. Just while there’s no one around to see.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy continues his series of terrible decisions. Alfie is not amused.

Tommy awakens to a world of pain. His throat feels so inflamed, he can’t swallow, and his mouth is so dry nothing would go down anyway. His eyes are wet, lashes clumped together. He feels hot and cold at the same time, jittery, raw all over. 

He forces himself into an upright sitting position, and his head swims, nausea churning in his belly. Fuck. He knows what this is: the early stages of delirium. He can’t afford that shit today, he has to meet Alfie, and then he has to conduct a family meeting. 

What time is it, anyway? Tommy’s genuinely surprised to realize it’s light out, as he usually wakes to his own anxiety or nightmares hours before dawn. An alarm has never been necessary. 

He looks down at himself to realize he’s still in his suit, his coat, crumpled and uncomfortable from hours of sleep. He fishes out his pocket watch.

Fuck. Fuck. It’s nearly 8 a.m. 

He’s supposed to meet Alfie at nine. And Alfie’s office is over two hours away.

No time to change clothes. No time to call. He has to get there now. 

Tommy’s aware that he’s not thinking clearly, but all he can do is try to fight through the fog of his growing delirium and do what’s needed to be done. Fuck, if only there were some cocaine. He doesn’t normally like cocaine, it ratchets the geers of his mind up to the rattling pace of a steam locomotive, but it could be helpful in situations like this. 

“No time, no fucking time,” he mutters, stumbling on unsure legs towards the door.

* * *

Alfie Solomons is not fucking amused. Ollie is watching him with nervous rabbit eyes as the clock ticks past nine, but the tall fuck knows better than to say anything. 

By the time it’s nine fifteen, Ollie clears his throat. “Um, Mister Solomons. Should I try to contact –” 

“No. No, you absolutely should fucking not.” Alfie leans back in his chair, furnace-hot rage smoldering in his chest. “Just. Cancel my meetings, right, all of them, for the rest of the day.”

Ollie raises his eyebrows, thick and dark enough to remind Alfie of fuzzy caterpillars. “All of them, Mister Solomons?”

“WHAT DID I JUST SAY?” Alfie booms, not in the mood for Ollie’s fuckery.

“Right, of course, Mister Solomons.” Ollie clears his throat. “Um. I’m sure he’s just –” 

“I’m sorry, did I  _ ask _ for your input, mate? Hmm? Did I request your all-knowing insight on matters of business and love?” Alfie really needs to do some more terrifying and maniacal shit, he realizes, if Ollie’s this comfortable offering unsolicited advice. 

For the time being, Alfie channels all his innermost violent and unholy impulses into his glare, and Ollie lowers his gaze. “Sorry, Mister Solomons.” 

“ _ Sorry, Mister Solomons, _ ” Alfie mocks in a high-pitched voice, and okay, maybe he’s not being entirely fair. It’s not Ollie’s fault that Tommy’s decided to be an unprofessional little shit. “Fuck. My mood’s shot for the day, it is, no point in trying to get anything done now. Just –” he waves a hand – “cancel all my meetings, kindly, and make sure my day is clear. I need a nap.” 

“Right, Mister Solomons.” 

Ollie stands and lopes from the room on his ridiculous, long legs. Fucking tall giraffe fuck. And yes, Alfie definitely is taking some of his hostility out on poor Ollie, but he’ll be able to direct it at the true culprit soon enough. 

“Impertinent little fucking –” Alfie rises from his desk and lumbers over to the his worn-out yet well-loved sofa – “theiving blue-eyed Gypsy racketeer fucking _ brat _ .” 

As he settles down on the sofa for an incredibly rage-fueled nap, there is only one thought that consoles him. Tommy can’t hide from him forever, and the next time he sees him, he will be thoroughly beating his ownership into his insubordinate little arse. 

* * *

Tommy has, somehow, made it to Camden Town. Granted, he felt on the verge of passing out the entire way, but he’s functioned under far worse circumstances. He parks in the back of Alfie’s bakery, well-aware that he can’t go through the front like this. Alfie’s men can’t see him like this, they can’t possibly be trusted to remain tight-lipped. Which begs the question, what is he to do now? It’s not like he can just rap on the window to get Alfie’s attention. 

As if on cue, the back door swings open, and Ollie steps out with a bouquet of trash bags in each hand for the rubbish bins. Tommy fumbles with the door handle, his hand shaky and uncoordinated, and stumbles out as Ollie chucks the bags, one by one, into the dumpster.

“Ollie,” he croaks out, and fuck, his voice is barely recognizable to his own ears. 

Ollie – who has just tossed in the last bag – jumps in the air and yelps, probably thinking he’s being solicited by the Ghost of Christmas Future. He wheels to face Tommy, a palm pressed flat to his chest like a child. 

“Mister Shelby?” he squeaks. 

“I think so,” Tommy rasps, without humor. “I’m here to see Alfie.” 

“You mean Mister Solomons?” Tommy opens his mouth, but Ollie corrects himself, “Right. Of course you mean Mister Solomons.” He eyes Tommy up and down, a look of concern in his eyes. “Are you alright, Mister Shelby?” 

No. “Yes, Ollie,” Tommy assures him. The world is too bright, and it’s making his eyes water, even from the shade of his cap. “Just, please. I need to see…” He trails off, to hoarse to continue speaking. 

“Mr. Solomons. Right. Right this way, Mister Shelby.” 

Ollie leads him in the back way, and Tommy breathes a sigh of relief when he notices none of Alfie’s men are present in the back hallway. His head swims as he follows Ollie up the stairs, and darkness creeps into the corners of his vision a couple of times. But he can’t show weakness by asking to stop and sit down. 

Finally, they stop in front of the door to Alfie’s office. “He’s asleep,” Ollie informs him in a stage-whisper that grates on Tommy’s inflamed nerve endings. “I’ll warn you, Mister Shelby, he was very...hurt, when you didn’t arrive at the scheduled time.” He looks Tommy up and down again, with that same concerned look that makes Tommy want to punch him. “Do you want me to go in ahead of you and let him know you weren’t feeling well?”

Tommy forces a pained smile. His head is swimming and thoughts are slippery, and he has to get this over with and decide what to do next. “I’m fine, Ollie.” 

Ollie looks unconvinced, and Tommy is filled with irrational rage and despair that his weakened state is visible even to this boy’s unobservant eyes. What if he tells Alfie’s other men? Will they laugh about it? 

Just when he’s about to make a thinly-veiled threat to try to regain control of the situation, Ollie nods politely and opens the door. “Good luck, Mister Shelby. And really, try to talk to him about it. He wants to understand.” 

Ollie smiles at him, sympathetically enough for Tommy to fantasize vaguely about his murder. He raises a hand as if to pat Tommy fraternally on the shoulder, then seems to think better of it, and retracts it sheepishly. 

Tommy gives him a curt nod before stepping inside, Ollie closing the door behind him. The room is bright with honey-gold light and the air is warm, and it reminds Tommy how tired he is. It actually takes him a moment to locate Alfie – his observational abilities have definitely been compromised, but to his credit, Alfie sort of blends in with the sofa. It’s the same caramel color as his clothes and beard. 

He looks grumpy, even in sleep, his brow furrowed and his arms folded, like he’s demanding an explanation. Tommy feels an inexplicable wave of affection for the man, followed by an even more forceful wave of melancholy. It isn’t fair that he’ll have to break Alfie’s heart. That Tommy will have to find some sweet-natured girl to fuck in missionary position while she moans dutifully, who will likely never know Tommy for who he really is.

His heart rate rises, sending pins and needles along his jittery, fevered nerves. Fuck. Is Tommy really anyone anymore? Is he even really a person, or did he die at war? How can anyone ever love him if he’s no one at all? His head swims and the high-pitched buzz of static fills his ears. Fuck, not now. 

He stumbles back into the chair in front of Alfie’s desk, and holds his head in his hands as he rides out the wave of panic. Even as he comes down from it, he’s left nauseous and dizzy, his head swirling. And fuck, it’s such a relief to rest his eyes. 

Tommy breathes in the warm, golden air. By the time he realizes he’s sinking into the warm darkness of sleep, it’s already too late.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie discovers that he's not the only one napping in his office.

Alfie went to sleep prepared to wake up to a bad mood. What he’s not prepared for in the slightest is Tommy fucking Shelby, slumped in his office chair like a little pile of laundry. It would have to be a millionaire’s pile of laundry, but still.

Alfie wonders if he is, in fact, hallucinating. He has affectionately been referred to as “psychotic,” and perhaps that label is more apt than he had previously accredited it. 

He cautiously approaches the Tommy-shaped lump, and is relieved to note that he’s breathing. Hallucination or not, it would be properly upsetting to wake up to Tommy dead. Feeling a bit ridiculous – no easy feat, considering Alfie’s particular standards – Alfie stoops to peer incredulously at his face. 

He’s flushed, an uncharacteristic rosacea to those porcelain-pale cheeks. On instinct, Alfie presses his lips to a razor-sharp cheekbone to test his temperature, confirming what he already suspects: the miniature fucking disaster of a person is burning up with fever. And, being hellbent on flinging himself headfirst into his own demise, he somehow still made it to Afie’s office. 

Alfie is, irrationally, furious. In the same manner he’d be furious if a customer mistreated, say, an incredibly rare and precious faberge egg. Doesn’t this fucking idiot have any concept of his own value? Why would he do this to himself? Why couldn’t he simply pick up the phone and say, “I’m sorry, Alfie, I don’t feel well today, Alfie,” to which Alfie would kindly say, “Oh, then I insist we postpone our meeting! Might I come make you some matzo ball soup this evening and tongue-fuck some wellness back into you, my darling?” To which Tommy would say – 

Oh, fuck it, he doesn’t have time for this, to contemplate how lovely and beautiful and nice life could be if Tommy could simply act like a functional fucking person. And there are other fucking steps to be taken, right, to somehow right this fucking mess he’s gotten himself into.

Alfie’s about to bellow for Ollie, before realizing that his deathly-ill husband-to-be probably shouldn’t wake up to Alfie screaming in his face. 

Instead, he presses another kiss to Tommy’s feverish cheek, and murmurs unnecessarily, “I’ll be right back, darling,” before storming from the office, down the stairs, into the main distillery, grabbing Ollie by the arm, and dragging the tall fuck from the main distillery, up the stairs, and back into Alfie’s office. 

Alfie gestures to Tommy, and demands, “What the fuck do you call this?” at the exact same moment that Ollie exclaims, “Oh my goodness!”

It takes the giraffe of a man a moment to realize that Alfie is still waiting for an answer, because he sputters, “Well, he came here to see you!”

Alfie leans into Ollie’s space. “And you didn’t fucking think to wake me up?” 

“Well, I assumed he would wake you up!” Ollie shrinks away from Alfie’s no-doubt maniacal expression.

Alfie makes his voice menacingly cheerful. “He’s  _ asleep, _ Ollie. People generally can’t wake other people if they, too, are unconcious.” 

Ollie has the unmitigated fucking gall to look mildly irritated. “He wasn’t asleep when I let him in,” he has the nerve to protest further, sniffing indignantly. “Moreover, sir, I know you’re worried, so I think you should perhaps get him a doctor instead of channeling every unpleasant emotion into rage.” 

Alfie’s about to rearrange Ollie’s teeth a bit for having the impudence to talk back to him that way – since when was he a fucking psychiatric professional, anyway? – when a soft gasp makes him realize Tommy is awake. 

He’s looking between them with eyes that are struggling to focus, those lids blinking blearily as though they’ve finally gotten too heavy for him. It would be adorable, if the whole situation weren’t so fucking upsetting. 

“Alfie?” he croaks, in a voice like he’s just finished gargling with glass. 

“Yeah, it’s me, sweetie. You fucking idiot,” Alfie sighs, his anger deflating. “Don’t move a muscle, I’m going to get you back home and see to it that you see a fucking doctor.” 

At the mention of home, Tommy’s eyes go round with panic. “Alfie, no I can’t go back there,” he rasps, every word painful. “Polly might come back, my family could find me there, I can’t – they can’t see me like this –” 

“Ssshh, shush, it hurts to listen to you, love. Whatever did you do to your poor throat?” Alfie shakes his head, making it a point to yell at Tommy properly for this – and maybe give him a bit of corporal punishment – once he can properly defend himself again. As it is, Alfie would feel like a bully, even by his standards. “Ollie, boy, I want you to call Dr. Abergel and tell him I need an immediate housecall, and then I want you to have Isadore bring the car ‘round. I’m taking Tommy to mine.” 

Ollie nods and has the meager wisdom to make himself scarce. Tommy still looks confused at what’s going on – how he even got here, Alfie’s not sure he wants to know – but he at least looks relieved at knowing he’ll be going to Alfie’s place and not his own. Alfie has mixed feelings about that. On the one hand, he’s pleased that he trusts Alfie enough to stay with him in a weakened state. On the other, it’s absurd that the boy is so averse to being vulnerable around his own family. 

“Why don’t you want your family to see you sick, Tom?” Alfie removes Tommy’s hat, tossing it onto his desk, and the bleary blue eyes squint as they’re newly exposed to daylight. “You trust them, don’t you?”

“Of course I trust them,” Tommy snaps, as if even now, he thinks that Alfie’s trying to wheedle vulnerable information out of him. “You of all people, Mister Solomons, should know the importance of maintaining an image of strength.”

Alfie is not an easy person to shock. That being said – “You mean you’re like this all the time?” 

Tommy blinks at him, as if he’s confused by the question.

“What I mean is,” Alfie reiterates, “I thought you were just like this with me because you hadn’t gotten to know me yet, is what I mean. Don’t you have anyone close to you, who you get to relax around? Be easy around? Open up to?”

“Of course not.” Tommy pauses, thinking. “Well. My sister.” He sounds displeased with the fact that she’s an exception. “When I can’t help it. She lives with me, you see, so she. She sees things, hears things.”

“You shouldn’t want to  _ help _ it, you pint-sized fucking nitwit. Having people you trust only counts if you actually fucking  _ trust  _ them.” Alfie realizes the futility of arguing with a borderline-delirious Tommy, but this is the most he’s ever let Alfie into his head. He might not get this opportunity once he’s well.

Tommy makes a dismissive, drunken gesture. “Need them to respect me.”

“For fuck’s sake, they’re your family! You shouldn’t have to  _ earn  _ anything from them!” He knows he shouldn’t yell, but Tommy’s flippant obstinance is frustrating him. “ _ Fuck!  _ How do you fucking live this way, you _ stupid _ little boy!?”

What he doesn’t expect, however, is for Tommy to flinch away in fright, with a soft gasp, as if out of muscle memory. His eyes are wide and his mouth is open, and for a moment, he looks disturbingly childlike. That, right then, is when Alfie realizes. 

Tommy has a lot of scars. Alfie wonders how many are from the war, from his many sporting wounds, and how many are from his father. Maybe his mother, too, since he knows she had a certain propensity towards frying pans. 

Alfie, it turns out, is also a fucking numbskull: of course Tommy’s like this. With two off-the-hinges parents and approximately twenty siblings, he probably had to be their shield, the little adult when no actual adults were there to rise to the occasion. Alfie can relate to that, in his own way. He just processed it differently. 

For once, Alfie finds he doesn’t have anything to say, so he just takes Tommy into his arms, apologetically, and just holds him there. He’s worryingly limp, neither pushing Alfie away nor pulling him close. Just letting himself be moved. 

Alfie can feel the heat radiating through his coat, so he pushes it off, leaving it rumpled in the chair. “Weighs more than you do anyway, I’ll bet.” 

“Fuck you,” Tommy murmurs, sleepily.

_ I love you, _ Alfie thinks.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie takes Tommy home to get medical care. Tommy, of course, assumes he's been abducted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to split chapters eight and nine into two, since it was just too long! Will post chapter nine tomorrow, and I already have most of chapter ten (the final chapter!!) written. 
> 
> I definitely did not think this fic would be ten chapters long, yet here we are. To those who leave comments (and on every chapter!?) I love y'all forever, and you are literally the force that keeps me posting! <3

Alfie keeps expecting razor-sharp retorts, that famous stubbornness, some attempt to salvage the professionality of this meeting. But Tommy is pretty out of it, and he seems determined to stay out of it. The little bugger doesn’t do anything halfway, does he?

He dips in and out of semi-consciousness, protesting when Alfie tries to lift him. “No. No.” He pushes feebly at Alfie’s chest, eyes laboring to stay open. The pinkened whites make the blue more piercing. “Not – not in front of your man.”

Alfie remembers that Ollie is present. “What, Ollie?” Alfie almost laughs at the notion, but that would be unkind. Ollie has been helpful during all this. “He doesn’t give a fuck, love.” 

“I assure you, I find you terrifying, Mister Shelby,” says Ollie, earnestly. 

“Please.” There’s a note of desperation in his voice, words thick and dry. His brow is rumpled. Fuck. 

“Ollie, give us some fucking space, yeah?” Alfie waves a hand at Ollie. “Just make sure the place doesn’t go up in flames, right? I’ll be gone for the day.” 

Ollie makes himself scarce, but Tommy still protests, batting at Alfie’s arms like a kitten. “I can fucking walk.” 

“No, you really can’t, love.” Alfie scoops him up easily, bridal style. “And even if you could, I wouldn’t let you.”

Even in his delirious state, Tommy looks mortified at being carried. He makes a despairing little sound and hides his face against Alfie’s chest, like it will keep anyone else from seeing him like this.

Alfie doesn’t want to enjoy this. Tommy is sick, to a seriously worrisome degree, and Alfie might even fear for his life if the tough little bastard didn’t habitually cling to life like a mouse to driftwood. 

And yet, what a thrill it is to have this powerful, fierce little creature momentarily weak, bashful in his arms. His pretty face pressed right over Alfie’s beating heart. Alfie isn’t accustomed to feeling guilty over what he wants, he makes it a point not to be, but he feels a bit sheepish now for taking such delight at Tommy’s vulnerable state. 

“You are growing to be a greedy and covetous boy, Alfred,” his dear mother once told him, when she was still alive in the traditional sense. “Your whoremonger father would be proud.” 

And maybe she was right about that. He knows that the impulses of love and ownership are a bit too tangled in his mind, a bit too indistinguishable, and yeah, that can be A Problem when what you love is a human being. But with his desire to covet comes also the desire to protect, to care for, to hold. And that’s not a bad thing, is it? And he will protect Tommy, care for him, as fiercely as a dragon protects its hoard.

He carries Tommy out to the car where Isadore is waiting, looking (ironically, on account of his Judaism) like a grim-faced Santa Clause. Isadore, whom he’s always careful to choose for sensitive tasks, on account of the fact that Isadore has absolutely no interest in the goings on of anyone’s life, including his own. 

“Home, Isa,” Alfie instructs him, arranging Tommy in his lap. He seems to have dipped out of consciousness again – he’s not protesting Isadore’s presence, or that he is, in fact, in Alfie’s lap. 

But his eyes keep fluttering open, rolling around, like he’s desperate to analyze his surroundings. Alfie wonders if he thinks he’s being abducted. 

Isadore, for his part, doesn’t acknowledge the delirious boy in Alfie’s possession. Nor does he acknowledge the kiss Alfie presses to the top of Tommy’s head as the engine snuffles drowsily to life. 

Alfie always did like Isadore. 

* * *

The family meeting. Fuck, the family meeting. He’s supposed to be on his way to the family meeting.

Tommy fights for consciousness, everything heavy. His mouth doesn’t feel quite so much like sandpaper – someone, he doesn’t know who, gave him some sips of water – but he still can’t quite will it to speak. Not even when he had his last concussion did he feel this way.

Now he’s in someone’s bed – not his own, which is worrisome – and he’s mostly undressed, except for the underwear protecting his modesty. Fuck, where is he? Alfie. He was talking to Alfie. And Alfie was holding him. Mortification blossoms anew at the recollection, raw and pink. Alfie’s never held him before, not outside of sex. 

He hates himself for wanting Alfie now, for wanting to call out to him, like a baby to its mother.

Two people are talking, but he can’t make out the source of their voices. Russian. They’re speaking Russian. 

Fuck. Do the Russians have him? His heart pounds at the thought, raw and painful as every other part of him. Of course Alfie sold him out to his enemies, while he’s too weak to defend himself. He’s a fool for trusting Alfie, let alone craving his touch. They’ll probably torture him for information now. 

Tommy’s about to try to fling himself from the bed, make a break for it while the unseen figures are preoccupied with one another, but when he rolls onto his side he recognizes the bizarre portrait of the baroque German Shepherd. He’s at Alfie’s house.

He feels foolish at the surge of hope that provides him. That doesn’t mean Alfie’s on your side, you fucking idiot, it just means they’re still negotiating. If only he could understand more Russian, so he could get a better sense of what they were talking about and plan a counter-strategy.

Just then, Alfie steps into his spectrum of vision, and fuck, where did he come from? Alfie seems to loom over him now, though not unkindly. More like a curious bear. He takes up so much space, just standing there.

“You’re so... _ big, _ Alfie,” Tommy finds himself saying, in awe. 

Alfie’s eyebrows shoot up, amused, and Tommy realizes vaguely how idiotic that must have sounded. That’s good, he tells himself, even as he prickles with embarrassment. If Alfie thinks he’s weak and incoherent, he’ll be more likely to underestimate him, and Tommy might get the chance to escape.

“Yeah, compared to you, I certainly am,” Alfie informs him. Tommy’s still trying to figure out if that’s an insult, when Alfie continues, “Now, I’ll be honest, treacle: my conversational Russian is a bit rusty. But according to Dr. Abergel –” Alfie tilts Tommy’s chin towards a previously unseen third party, currently putting away medical equipment at the foot of the bed – “or what I could understand of him, at any rate, you’re going to be just fine. It wouldn’t have been a bad case of influenza at all, if you’d gotten rest and liquids like you was supposed to, you silly thing.” 

Tommy is still trying to make sense of this. The doctor – a small, plump man with a bald head as round as his glasses – gives Tommy a reassuring smile as he snaps shut his medical bag.

“Where did the Russians go?” Tommy asks, before he can stop himself. Fuck, did he just give himself away? Was that part of their ploy all along?

“No Russians, sweetie.” Alfie chuckles. He ruffles Tommy’s hair, affectionately, and the gesture makes Tommy feel small. “Except Dr. Abergel, of course. And me, on me mother’s side.”

Tommy’s still bewildered as the doctor and Alfie part ways, and sure enough, the Russian voices he’d been hearing seem to belong to them. 

Tommy needs to get his bearings, he can’t just waste an entire day because of influenza. And Alfie – Alfie might still try to exploit this situation, to gain sensitive information or have Tommy sign over parts of his business. But his thoughts won’t stop swirling like minnows, refusing to do his bidding.

His head loles as he looks around for something to ground him, and panic seizes his chest. “No,” he gasps, without meaning to. 

Alfie – who has just shut the door behind the Russian doctor – lumbers over to his bed. “For goodness sakes, Tom, what is it now?”

“The family meeting,” Tommy cries, and raising his voice reminds him of how badly his throat hurts. “I have to get to the family meeting, they’re all – they’ll all be waiting for me, we’ll be set back by weeks.”

He shouldn’t be giving Alfie this information, but he feels so helpless, he could cry from frustration. He tries to push himself up from the bed, only to be pushed down flatly by the palm of Alfie’s hand. 

“You, my darling, are going absolutely nowhere,” he growls, harshly enough to make Tommy shy away. Alfie’s probably always been stronger than him, but there’s no way he could take him now. “You’re in this mess because you couldn’t care for yourself, so I’ll have to do it for you.”

Tommy’s chest flutters at that, and he loathes the power the man can still hold over him.

“Now –” Alfie sits back, like a bear on its haunches – “here’s what is going to happen. I will go to the family meeting –” 

“Alfie, you can’t –” 

“– And I will tell them, right, that you and I were in the midst of a very professional business meeting, when you were seized by illness.” Alfie doesn’t even pause to acknowledge Tommy’s attempt to speak. “Afterwards, I’ll tell them that business matters will be left in the hands of your sister Ladybird or Adabird or whatever her name is, and family matters will be run by your aunt Pollywog.” 

“Just Polly,” Tommy corrects, but he’s impressed: Alfie has been listening to him, after all. He remembers how Tommy divides up his business in emergencies. Tommy will have to be more careful of what he says around him. 

“Now, I will alert my reclusive housekeeper of your presence,” Alfie continues, standing up. “And she will bring you water and soup and anything else you ask for. But she is bigger and stronger than you, especially now, so don’t get any of your silly little ideas about running off.” 

Tommy blinks up at him, bewildered. His adrenaline rush has left him now, and his head feels too heavy to be lifted. He knows he’ll have issues with Alfie’s plan once he’s more coherent, but he can’t bring himself to conjure them now.

Alfie stoops to kiss his forehead, evidently unconcerned about catching Tommy’s influenza. “I’ll see you soon, treacle. Don’t you worry your pretty head,” he assures him. “Anyway, perhaps this is a good thing, innit? I’ve been wanting to meet your family.” 

That specific sentence is what fills Tommy with dull panic, horrified thoughts that he can’t seem to voice as Alfie rises, receding from the room as if in slow motion. Tommy’s still trying to shape a single syllable as the door closes behind him. 

Tommy really can’t do anything except flop against the pillows, his strength siphoned out of him.

Fuck. This is going to go horribly wrong. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie meets his newly claimed future in-laws.

Alfie had a bit of difficulty finding the office where Tommy and his kin usually conducted their meetings, partially because Birmingham is as intricate and and full of winding, hidden corridors as Tommy’s mind. He only remembers it because Tommy’s had Alfie come meet him there on a couple of occasions, after a family meeting had concluded and Tommy had somewhere to be directly afterwards. 

Truth be told, Alfie doesn’t even want to leave him alone – not even under the care of his Reclusive Housekeeper, who is a powerful and robust woman who is more than physically capable of thwarting any of Tommy’s escape attempts. But he knows better than to underestimate the conniving bastard, even when his scheming little mind is beset by fever. The only reason he’s doing this at all is because it’s important, Alfie firmly believes, to demonstrate to Tommy that he can take a few days off of work without the world collapsing around his ears. 

Inside the building, it smells of cigarette smoke and sawdust and whisky. Not nearly as pristine as Tommy’s usual office, but then, perhaps it reminds the Shelbys of their roots. They were probably born in a stable, the whole litter. 

“Arthur, I told you, you should wait,” rasps a smoky female voice, telling Alfie he’s at least headed in the right direction. 

“We’re not going to get anything done if you’re sloshed before Tommy even gets here,” agrees the chirping voice of Ada. 

“Yeah, well, we’re not going to get anything done if he never gets here, neither,” bellows a voice, which Alfie assumes belongs to Tommy’s brother. It gets louder, and more grating on Alfie’s fucking nerves, the closer Alfie gets to its source. “And since His Highness doesn’t seem to plan on showing up, I say we –” 

Just then, Alfie rounds the corner, and the dialogue – or trialogue, since it was three people Alfie heard talking – vacates the room as the confused eyes of the Shelby family land on Alfie. 

Alfie makes a snap-judgement assessing the room, trying to place faces to names based on what Tommy’s said about them.

Brown-eyed woman with Cheekbones and brown curly hair and a sour expression = Tommy’s aunt Polly.

Angry-looking mustached fucker = Tommy’s older brother Arthur.

Tall, baby-faced fuck with the dim facial expression = Tommy’s younger brother John.

Gangly kid who definitely shouldn’t be at this meeting at all = Tommy’s much-younger-brother Finn. 

And of course, there’s Ada, who looks even more surprised and concerned than the rest of them – probably because she, unlike the rest, can recognize Alfie on sight and knows to be worried by his presence. 

“Alfie?” she exclaims, just before Arthur bellows, “Who the fuck are you?” Despite the fact that Ada, of course, basically just told Arthur who he is. Dense bugger. 

“I, my good man –” Alfie gestures like a bad actor in a Shakespearean play – “am Tommy’s worst enemy and his greatest friend, and also, unfortunately, the bearer of bad news.”

“What the fuck?” mutters John, looking around as if to confirm that he’s not the only one confused by this. 

At Arthur’s baffled face, Ada confirms, “Arthur, this is Alfie Solomons. He was meeting with Tommy today.” And then, to Alfie, “Is Tommy alright?”

“Tommy will live, alright,” Alfie informs her gravely. “However, he is ill. I came here to tell you.”

“Ill?” Polly leans forward, her eyebrows drawn together. “Ill with fucking what? Where is he?”

“Ill with the influenza. He and I were enjoying an entirely professional business meeting in the comfort of my office, when his fever got the best of him. Was the stress that did it, working without rest. He’ll need a few days off to recuperate, so he’s sent me here to confirm that Ada is to be in charge of the company, and someone named Auntie Dolly –” he pretends not to know who Polly is, or her correct name – “is to manage the family in his absence.”

Polly sits back a moment, still processing this, and then leans forward again. “And then the matter of where the fuck he is?” 

She has that outraged expression still that triggers an antagonistic impulse in Alfie. So Alfie answers, “Well, I took him to my place, seeing as he’s so afraid of you lovely people seeing him sick that he didn’t even want the refuge of his own home.” And then, because he can’t resist, “Stellar mother you must be.” 

Ada ducks her head and coughs conspicuously, concealing stifled laughter with her elbow.

“His  _ mother? _ ” Polly snaps. “You think I’m his  _ mother?  _ I’m five years his senior!”

“Well, you could’ve fooled me, lady,” Alfie scoffs, which isn’t completely a lie. Not because Polly looks old or anything, but because Tommy just looks absurdly young. 

Polly flinches forward on some primal impulse to attack, and the rest of the table flinches with her. Alfie can tell that Polly’s not a person he’d be wise to antagonize, but then, when has Alfie ever been concerned with wisdom?

“How do we know you’re even telling the truth?” Arthur changes the subject. “That you didn’t lock him up somewhere, or worse?”

“Arthur, Alfie’s alright,” Ada sighs, before Alfie can even think of a response to that ridiculous question. “He and Tommy have been –” she seems to debate whether or not she should say this – “Tommy really trusts him. Let’s just say that.” 

Anyone else would surely be able to pick up the meaning behind that, but the brothers’ dim facial expressions don’t falter. 

“Well, he didn’t  _ seem  _ sick,” Arthur continues to protest, like he genuinely can’t wrap his head around the concept. 

“Well, that’s the thing about illness, mate, is that first you _ aren’t _ sick, and then you  _ become  _ sick,” Alfie explains, in a deliberately patronizing tone. “Anyway, if you weren’t so derelict in your fatherly duties, maybe you’d have noticed some symptoms.” 

Arthur clearly doesn’t have Polly’s restraint, because he rises like an enraged peacock, chair shrieking behind him. “I am NOT Tommy’s fucking FATHER,” he roars, while Ada grabs at his arm frantically, as if that will prevent a physical altercation. 

Truth be told, it would be easier to believe that Arthur’s Tommy’s father, considering he certainly does  _ not _ look only two years Tommy’s senior. But since Alfie doesn’t actually want to get into a fight with Arthur or anyone else today, he decides it’s best to leave things there.

“Look, don’t shoot the messenger, mate,” Alfie says, as a half-hearted peace offering. “I just wanted to let you nice folks know he’s sick, and won’t be coming in today, and who he wants to be in charge during his absence. Alright?”

The family just stares vacantly at him, looking like a fucked up portrait that would hang over a fucked up mantel. Arthur, still furious enough for a vein to be popping out at his temple. Ada clutching his arm. Polly looking conniving and spiteful (and yeah, Alfie can see a bit of family resemblance between her and Tommy in that department.) John looking poised to attack if and when Arthur does. Finn looking like he doesn’t know what the fuck is going on. 

“Right,” Alfie confirms to himself. “I’ll be on my way, then.” 

With that, he turns and lumbers towards the door, and out of it.

Behind him, he distinctly hears Polly rasp, “Well. Tommy certainly does know how to pick them.”

“Pick what, Pol?” asks Arthur, genuinely confused. “His business partners?” 

“Yes, Arthur.” There’s the flick of a lighter, and Alfie can picture her hollowing her cheeks around a cigarette. “Business partners.” 

* * *

Alfie comes home to find Tommy half-hanging off the bed, his fingertips brushing the floor. 

Alfie shakes his head, rolling him gently back onto the mattress. “There you go, love,” he mutters. “Trying to get away even in sleep, aren’t you? Can’t leave you alone for a minute.” 

Tommy stirs as Alfie sits down next to him. His brows draw together, and he makes a discontented sound. “The family meeting,” he mutters. 

“Already done and dusted, sweets.” Alfie slips off his own shoes, tossing them into the corner of the room. “I met my future in-laws, and we got along swimmingly.”

Tommy moans weakly. 

“Sssh, shush, it’s just the fever, love.” Alfie shrugs off his layers carelessly, leaving them discarded on the floor. “You’ll be better in no time, if you just rest like you’re s’posed to.” 

Alfie crawls into bed in his underwear, despite the fact that it’s early in the afternoon. It’s not like he’s ever been opposed to daytime naps, anyway. He shimmies under the blankets.

Tommy flinches at the sudden contact. “No,” he gasps. 

“Just me, treacle,” he assures him, not sure if it will be a comfort. Alfie really doesn’t want to sleep on his spine-murdering couch, but he will if he has to. 

But Tommy does relax, giving a barely perceptible little exhale of relief. He even presses back as Alfie spoons him from behind, his bare flesh feverishly hot against Alfie’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

“Sorry for what, Tom?”

“Just sorry.” He doesn’t sound remotely conscious, his silver tongue rendered guileless. “For everything.”

Alfie says nothing. Just kisses his neck, then the delicate skin behind his ear. Holds him tighter.

Someday Tommy will know that in Alfie’s eyes, he’ll never have to be sorry. In a cold and fickle world, his forgiveness will be a given. 


	10. Chapter 10

Tommy awakens to blue evening light and a dim room, his heart pounding him with sharp spikes of adrenaline that his weakened body can’t handle. It takes him a moment to remember where he is, why he’s nearly naked in someone else’s bed. 

Alfie isn’t here. He looks around, more frantic than he’s used to being, for some sign of where he might have gone. 

He knows he should take this opportunity to escape – surely, a pragmatist like Alfie will use Tommy’s weakened state to his advantage – but all he wants is for Alfie to come back. He feels cold and fragile as the inside of an oyster, and he doesn’t want to be alone. 

Over the pounding in his ears, he hears the rush of a faucet running. Looking for its source, he spots a sliver of yellow light under the door to Alfie’s bathroom.

He should escape. Now would be a perfect time to escape. And yet, Tommy finds, he doesn’t want to escape.

For one thing, where would he go? He doesn’t want to go home right now, and deal with Ada and Polly or whoever else is looking for him. At least he has the comfort of knowing they’re running things while he’s away, and are unlikely to run the business into the ground the way, say, Arthur or Michael would. 

And more than that, he’s tired, so tired, like a lifetime of weariness has caught up to him. He knows it’s from the fever, but it also feels like the fever exposed something he normally tries to hide from. The tender spot inside of him that yearns to be held, loved, treated gently. 

Maybe it’s the only part of him, of who he once was, that survived the war. His childhood. Maybe it’s the only part of him that’s still human.

Maybe he can give in to it, just for a little while.

* * *

Alfie kicks open the bathroom door, sudsy water sloshing over the rim of the basin and onto his bare forearms. He is not surprised, though not pleased, to find Tommy sitting up in bed like some vampire beginning its life amongst the undead. 

“Can’t leave you alone for a second, can I?” He shakes his head, stooping to set the basin at Tommy’s feet. Tommy’s eyes – still glassy with fever, but sharper than they were – track the motion, as if it might be a weapon. “High-maintenance little thing. I ought to just strap you to my chest and carry you with me.”

Tommy is evidently coherent enough to look flustered at that, averting his eyes. It’s difficult to tell if he’s blushing, everything already flushed pink with heat. 

“You shouldn’t be in here, Alfie,” he murmurs, changing the subject. 

“And why is that, hmm?” Kneeling, Alfie rings out a washcloth. 

“You could catch it.”

Alfie chuckles. “My dear boy, when I was an infant, I was a weak and sickly creature. Now, my dear mother, being the unsentimental individual she is, wanted to drown me like a sack of kittens and start fresh with a less disease-prone child. But she was friends with a witch, and that witch said, ‘Come on now, let’s not make any rash decisions’ –” Alfie straightens up – “‘Let me instead bless him with good health, and see if that does the trick.’ And she did, and it did, and the only illness I’ve had in years is me sciatica.”

Tommy stares at him blankly, like a deer who’s just been made into a human and doesn’t understand the English language.

“You won’t get me sick, sweetie,” he reiterates. “Though it’s nice of you to worry about old Alfie.” 

He dabs at Tommy’s face with the hot, wet cloth, and keeps expecting Tommy to protest. But he just blinks, looking sweetly bewildered. 

“My father tried to drown me once, too,” he rasps, matter-of-factly. 

Which is enough to make Alfie pause, just for a minute. Then he keeps going, because this is the first time Tommy’s opened up to him about such things, and he doesn’t want to fuck it up now that the stubborn little thing is finally talking. 

“He was drunk,” Tommy continues, wetting his lips. “He kept slapping me brother around – John. He was still so little, and he wasn’t doing anything except play a bit too loudly.” 

Alfie washes behind Tommy’s ears, his neck, his collarbones. Nods, like this is a completely normal train of conversation. 

“And the worst thing was, the worst thing, was that John didn’t even stop playing when he got slapped. Just kept at it, because it was so normal. And I got so mad, I got so angry, that took up my father’s belt, and I hit him with it. My father. I hit him over the back, with the same belt he used to hit me.” Tommy is staring off into space, like he’s living it again. “And he looked so angry he froze, but I just kept hitting him, till he took it from me hands. I was so angry, I bit him, and he roared at me as he dragged me outside. And my brothers and my sister, they followed us, begging him not to hurt me, all of them crying now. I’d just made everything worse.”

Alfie stares at Tommy’s neck, not wanting to look him in the eyes, not sure if that would just make him clam up again. His clean-shaven Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“He held me under the canal, like the baptisms I read about in books. Except he wouldn’t let me come up for air, no matter how hard I fought, no matter how my lungs burned. My Uncle Charlie beat him off me, eventually. He tried to make it sound like my father wouldn’t really hurt me, like he’d realized what he was doing and stopped, but I saw the way they glared at each other, the way their chests heaved, the pinkness of Charlie’s knuckles. Later, Arthur confirmed it.”

Alfie dips the washcloth again, ringing it out. In his periphery, Tommy shakes his head.

“I cried. That was the worst thing, that I let him see me cry after. Like he’d won. I was so weak.” 

“No, sweetie.” Alfie tries to sound as matter-of-fact as possible as he washes Tommy’s chest, the thatch of raven-dark hair. “You were just a kid. Probably a tiny thing, too. Kids aren’t supposed to be strong. They shouldn’t have to be.”

On impulse, he presses a kiss to that semicircular tattoo, like that will make it better. Tommy finally stiffens at that, like he realizes the intimacy of all this. “I can do that,” he states, putting a hand on the washcloth.

“I know.” Alfie kisses him again, on his throat. On the fluttering pulse of a vein. “You shouldn’t have to.” He works his way up, till he’s kissing his lips, the inside of his mouth impossibly hot. “Let me take care of you, Tommy. Let me make you feel good.”

He half expects Tommy to say no, but instead he nods. “Just for a little while,” he murmurs. 

_ For a start,  _ Alfie adds, but doesn’t say. 

He guides Tommy onto his front, marveling at the liquid fluctuations of his muscles, of his shoulder blades. He washes down his back, kissing scars where he encounters them. 

_ I love you,  _ he wants to say, but doesn’t yet. “I’ll keep you safe, Tom. You don’t have to worry, not any more. Not when you’re with me.”

“I don’t need you to,” Tommy protests. 

“No,” Alfie concedes. “But I want to.”

When feels Tommy tense as he gets to the waistband of his white underwear. “May I?” he asks, tracing them gently.

Tommy nods into his pillow, shy, and isn’t that just adorable. 

Alfie peels down his pants to reveal that divine fucking arse, flushed as pink as every other part of him, those pert cheeks jutting up like an invitation. 

This has been a lovely and intimate moment between them, and Alfie almost doesn’t want to cheapen it by introducing sex to the equation. But then, doesn’t Tommy deserve a bit of positive reinforcement after all this?

Tommy always seems to sense his intentions. “Alfie, I don’t know if I can.” He swallows, clearly embarrassed – by the situation, by his vulnerability, by the admission of frailty. “ _ Perform,  _ right now.” 

_ Want to bet, _ Alfie thinks, but once again, doesn’t say. It’s not that kind of mood right now. “You don’t have to, sweetheart.” Alfie traces the crack between them, watching goosebumps rise. Sensitive, aren’t we? “I just want to make you feel nice. Hmm? Can I do that?”

Once again, Tommy gives a shy little nod. 

Alfie, very gently, spanks one of Tommy’s cheeks, watches that delectable jiggle. “Need you to use your words for this, darling.” 

“Yes,” Tommy murmurs, that normally strong voice thin as paper. 

“Good enough for me.” 

Alfie eats him out thoroughly, gently and cruelly, making his overly sensitive, feverish little body twitch and writhe and squirm. He relishes every vulnerable little sound that he can squeeze from him, juicing him like an orange for it.

When his rim is wet and loose, Alfie introduces fingers to the mix – first one, then two – reducing him even further before pulling out briefly. Tommy whimpers at the loss. 

“Sshh. On your back, love. I’ll take care of you.” 

Tommy looks remarkably vulnerable like this, naked and pink, so much smaller without the armor of his suits. Doe-eyed and face flushed like a princess who’s been newly kissed awake. He may be the most feared man in Birmingham, but absolutely no one would fear him now. 

He seems to be aware of this. “Alfie.” There’s a note of despair in his voice, of fear. 

“It’s okay. You’re beautiful, darling.” Alfie sheaths his finger back up Tommy’s worked-loose hole, watching his chest rise and fall at the sensation. “S’just me. Just you and me, Tom. You’re safe.”  _ I love you. _

Tommy’s dick has given a valiant effort to rise, but it clearly needs a little more help.

Alfie puts his wet, loose mouth around Tommy’s semi-hard cock, teasing it with his tongue, fingering him gently. He works patiently and heartlessly, relishing the shocked little sounds he can milk from him, the wet squelch of his finger.

Once Tommy’s cock is finally hard, and Tommy’s little sounds are becoming more rhythmic and desperate, he begins to pump it in and out of his mouth, using his free hand to work the sheath. With the finger still inside Tommy’s arse, he pushes down on his sweet spot.

Tommy cries out as he comes, like he’s startled by it. Alfie suckles him gently through the aftermath, swallowing every drop. 

Only as he kisses his way back up Tommy’s body, up his heaving chest, does Alfie realize how hard his own cock is. He’d been so focused on pleasing Tommy, he didn’t even notice his own throbbing erection till it’s pressed to Tommy’s thigh. How uncharacteristically magnanimous of him.

Tommy clearly notices it too, considering it’s prodding him like a hot poker. “Do you want me to –” 

“No, treacle.” Tommy clearly isn’t in any place to be doing Alfie sexual favors, his meager energy spent. He can barely keep his eyes open, those heavy lids fluttering. “All I want you to do is rest.”

Of course, Alfie desperately wants to fuck him, he’s not that much of a saint. But Tommy is clearly exhausted, and a cock would be too much for his delicate insides to handle.

Miracle of all miracles, Tommy complies, and lets himself wrapped up in Alfie’s arms, guided under the blankets. Tommy’s arse is pressed to Alfie’s crotch, which certainly doesn’t help his burgeoning erection, but we all must make sacrifices for love, mustn’t we.

And Tommy is pressed to him, and Alfie can feel the drumbeat of his breathing and his beating heart, and there’s nothing between them except the skin they wear. What else could he possibly ask for, besides this?

“Alfie,” Tommy murmurs. His voice sounds like it’s fighting through sleep, the foolish, stubborn little thing.

“Hmm?” 

“What if I can’t – what if I can’t be what you need me to be? What if I’m always like I am now?” 

Alfie sighs. He really is a silly boy, isn’t he?

“I don’t need you to be anything, Tommy. I don’t  _ want _ anything,” he says, and for the first time in his life, he means it. “Nothing but you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who leaves comments and kudos, this one goes out to you. I cannot thank you enough. <3

**Author's Note:**

> You know what to do! Comment, by order of the Peaky FOOKIN' Blinders.


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